


The Most Inconvenient Weakness

by spicywatson



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Regency, Falling In Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Slow Burn, courting, pride and prejudice au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 16:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30125844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicywatson/pseuds/spicywatson
Summary: "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a husband."After a single night and a rather rude encounter, Oswald Cobblepot's life is about to be changed forever.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma, and sofia/kringle, and thompkean!!, there's also oswald/fries
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	The Most Inconvenient Weakness

The annual ball at the Wayne estate is an event both cherished and coveted. It is not often that the people of Gotham are subject to such splendor, as no establishment could possibly match its extravagance. A lavish home indeed, with gilded trim lining every doorway, polished marble floors, and long, wide corridors painted with murals so bright and intricate one could spend hours gazing at them. The gardens are their own spectacle entirely, boasting roses, stone walkways, towering fountains… a few guests have even claimed to see a peacock or two strutting about the lawns.

But the appeal of the Wayne Manor ball goes beyond its posh appearance: there is perhaps no greater opportunity to meet and mingle with the cream of Gotham. It is the perfect place to forge a network of friends and allies in high places. The perfect place to make a name for oneself.

_The perfect place to attract a suitor._

While Oswald Cobblepot refuses to title himself a lonely bachelor, the deaths of both his mother and father have left the halls of Van Dahl Estate seeming more and more like wide, empty chasms, echoing his solitude back to him.

Oswald needs no fortune. His mother possessed no assets before her union with his father, but Elijah Van Dahl had more than enough wealth to support many generations to come, and thus his death left Oswald essentially bathing in riches. He is sure the only person in Gotham who could surpass his status is young Mr. Bruce Wayne, an orphan of staggering prestige.

In short, Oswald has no practical incentive to marry.

As a young boy, his mother always filled his head with tales of romance, of knights in shining armor and of happy endings. _“Life only gives you one true love, my little Kapelput. When you find him, run to him.”_ His logical mind rejects the idea like soured cream. His fanciful mind screams for him to chase after that wonderful man his mother spoke of. So when Oswald had torn open an envelope one morning to find an invitation to the Wayne ball, his heart had fluttered, though foolishly, at the prospect.

Despite telling himself he has no intention to dance, Oswald spent no less than two hours pacing his bedroom, primping before the mirror and agonizing over which waistcoat to pair with which cravat. In the end he was quite pleased, dressed in a silk, plum-purple ensemble worthy of Gotham’s upscale society. He swept his hair back in an elegant curl, collected his cane, and with an optimistic smile, was on his way to Wayne Manor. 

Oswald finds the evening beginning on the wrong foot, however, when he rounds the corner of the adjoining rooms and collides with a tall figure, nearly swallowing the other man’s cravat in the incident.

“Watch where you step!” Oswald snaps, fire on his tongue and burning in his eyes. He earns only a passive response from the man he recognizes as the cold, calculating logician, Mr. Edward Nygma.

“The same to you,” Mr. Nygma says with a curt nod, before shouldering his way past him. A pity the man cannot see Oswald’s withering glower.

Feathers already ruffled, he shakes himself off and puts it from his mind. Laughter and cheerful melodies carry down the hall, happy and floating, beckoning him up the short staircase and to the heart of Wayne Manor. He steps into the bright, golden room, weaving between the guests, keeping along the walls to avoid being stepped on by couples leaping about.

“Ozzie!”

He leans up on his tip toes and searches the room.

“Ozzie, there you are!”

The sight of his beloved friend Barbara dashing towards him brings an easy smile to his face. She’s adorned her hair with pearls and, in a fashion true to her personality, decorated her white gown with a pink sash, one which she had so painstakingly picked at the market, and which Oswald had reluctantly given his opinion on.

“What do you think?” She twirls around and twists one of her blonde curls playfully. “Am I the belle of the ball?”

“My dearest friend, I do hope you do not intend to flirt with _me._ After all, you are aware of my proclivity towards men.”

“Oh, Ozzie, I wouldn’t dare. Have you seen how lovely Doctor Thompkins looks this evening? Simply ravishing.”

Oswald glances at the woman who has ensnared his friend’s heart, and she appears truly sophisticated, wearing a gown that shines like melted gold and with wild flowers woven into her gleaming hair. He expected nothing less from someone so refined as Miss Thompkins.

It’s just then that Oswald also spots a ruby red ensemble moving through the bustling room, and only moments later he and Barbara are graced by the arrival of their close friend, Miss Falcone. It certainly works in Barbara’s favor that Sofia is the half sister of Miss Thompkins, and she can therefore encourage the spark between them to grow into a flame.

“My, how the doctor makes eyes at you, Barbara!” Sofia gushes as she tucks a loose strand of Barbara’s hair back. “You’d best catch her before that odious Mr. Gordon does.”

“Do you think she could love me already?”

Oswald scoffs. “Oh please, dear, there is no such thing as love at first sight.”

“Now, now, Oswald,” Sofia scolds, taking hold of his arm and gently swiveling him so he might surreptitiously watch Mr. Nygma prowl around the outskirts of the crowd. “I think Edward Nygma might protest against such an observation. He cannot take his gaze from you.”

“Look how he sulks! Glaring upon me with something I could only guess is contempt, as though he finds me barely tolerable.”

“I’ll be clutching my pearls in shock if he does not ask you to dance by the end of the night,” Barbara supplies, and then her attention is once again stolen by Leslie Thompkins, who applauds the orchestra with gloved hands. Only Sofia notices his scowl.

“I may not share your inclination towards men,” Sofia continues, putting on that mothering voice she often uses, as she carefully arranges the ruffles of Oswald’s cravat, “but I know when one’s interest has been piqued.”

Despite his blush, Oswald spits out, “I would need to be intoxicated to endure a dance with the likes of him!”

In an instant, Sofia’s warm and pleasant smile vanishes, and Oswald can already feel dread prickling at his neck. “You may not have to, now, Oswald. I believe Mr. Fries intends to court you,” she warns under her breath, tipping her chin subtly to suggest he turn around.

Sure enough, there’s Victor Fries weaving his way towards their corner of the room, and Oswald is utterly trapped. “Oh dear,” he mutters with a grimace, hand tightening around his friend’s arm as though she could stop this happening. Mr. Fries is plenty handsome, with long, fine features and well-groomed hair, and his scientific work is certainly an indication of his intelligence and high status, yet Oswald would rather drink poison than accept his hand. In the few times they’d conversed, Oswald found him terribly dull and far too morose, perpetually mentioning his deceased wife- surely he sleeps with a lock of her hair under his pillow, with the way he bemoans her. If ever they were to be married, Oswald would only exist in the shadow of Nora Fries. A replacement, adequate at best.

Oswald rises up on his tip toes and scans the room, frantically searching for someone who might save him. “Have you seen Mr. Fox?” he asks shakily, “He is most agreeable, don’t you think? I’d love to dance with him-” Someone clears their throat behind him, Barbara barely restrains her giggling, and Oswald is defeated. He flushes a rather unbecoming shade of red.

A hand stretches toward him. “May I have this dance?”

If only he could sink into the floor. But his mother taught him better manners. He stares at the buttons on Mr. Fries’ royal blue coat, then back at Sofia’s raised eyebrows, and with a suppressed sigh, says, “Very well.”

They bow, and Oswald is dragged away from the comfort of his friends’ presence and to the center of the room. As he and Mr. Fries circle around each other, the latter prattling on about the size of the crowd and how Nora always adored such parties, his only saving grace is seeing Barbara, positively glowing as she dances with Doctor Thompkins. Sofia, too, has paired off with a spectacled, red-haired woman, whom Oswald guesses to be the charming Miss Kringle. At the very least, Oswald can distract himself with the happy faces of his friends while Mr. Fries jabbers away.

Their hands meet in the middle, Oswald slides past Mr. Fries and takes his place along the opposite line. “I must confess I never cared for dancing until Nora persuaded me otherwise.” Barbara’s eyes sparkle when she elicits a laugh from Doctor Thompkins. Sofia’s smile is bright pink.

Oswald and Mr. Fries step closer to one another and circle. “I think you would love Nora’s gardens at the estate. Perhaps you should visit sometime.”

Separate. Back together. “Do you enjoy the Spring?”

There’s a peculiar tickle on the back of Oswald’s neck, a sensation of phantom fingers brushing across his nape, feather-light.

Oswald has always possessed keen enough senses to know when he’s being watched. It is strange though, that when he tosses a glare in the direction of Mr. Nygma, a dizzying sensation swoops through his stomach, as if a bird has taken flight within him. The man’s passionate eyes do not waver and Oswald almost wonders if they are the only two in the room, the only two in the world. He nearly stumbles but is caught in the hands of Mr. Fries.

“You are a vision in purple,” his dancing partner comments, and Oswald is almost eager to take the compliment when the man adds wistfully, “That was always Nora’s color.”

The moment they turn from each other, Oswald indulges himself in rolling his eyes. He sneaks a glance back down the line without a thought. Mr. Nygma has vanished.

Oh. Just as well.

The violin bows make one last sweep and the song concludes triumphantly. Oswald bows to Mr. Fries as hurriedly as he can, then runs off before he is once again caught in conversation like a fly in a spider’s web. He is grateful to find Barbara and Miss Thompkins engaged in an enthusiastic discussion on, from the sound of it, the latest medical breakthroughs of the 18th century. Certainly not Barbara’s forte—her skills and interests lie more in politics and entrepreneurship—although she listens diligently as the other woman explains how she has managed to immunize patients against smallpox.

“Good evening, Doctor Thompkins,” Oswald greets with a small bow as he sidles up beside them. He casts a sly glance around- Mr. Fries seems to have lost sight of him, but he manages to garner the attention of Captain Gordon, who paces around them with about as much stealth as an elephant.

“Mr. Cobblepot, I did not realize you were a friend of Mr. Wayne’s,” she replies, her mouth twitching into an unsure grin.

“Friend? Not quite,” he bats his lashes, “But surely it would be rude of him not to invite one of the most influential people in Gotham to the most famed ball around.”

“Influential in Gotham’s underground, you mean.” The doctor narrows her eyes.

“Ozzie’s been wonderful for this city,” Barbara pipes up, sensing the tension that prickles under their skin, “No one’s donated more to businesses than he. And, why, he uncovered the Red Hood conspiracy just last month, stopped the attack on our City Hall.”

“No luck finding their leader, I suppose?” Doctor Thompkins inquires.

“I believe he’ll be exposed promptly,” Oswald assures in his best diplomatic tone.

Mr. Gordon has moved closer now, his stone-cold eyes shifting amongst them. The doctor takes a fleeting look and, for reasons Oswald could not possibly understand, awards the moronic man with a polite curtsy.

“Barbara is a fine dancer, is she not?” Oswald observes suddenly, tilting his head innocently and throwing a wink at his friend when Doctor Thompkins cannot see.

“She is, quite,” Miss Thompkins answers with a bashful smile that brings a bright pink glow to Barbara’s cheeks. Mr. Gordon is instantly forgotten.

“Oh, Ozzie flatters me. I could not hold a candle to you.”

The plucking of violin and cello strings being tuned for the next song calls the attention of the crowd.

“Shall we?” The doctor extends her arm, much to the sulking Mr. Gordon’s dismay, and Barbara happily wraps a gloved hand around her elbow. Oswald has no doubt that Miss Thompkins has already fallen for his friend. He gives her a reassuring wave as she parts and he is left alone. Vulnerable.

The guests gather around for the beginning of another dance, the orchestra is poised to play, and Oswald is determined to avoid being bored half to death by Mr. Fries yet again. If he must hide behind a pillar and wait out the rest of the night, then he shall do just that. The sight of that man’s familiar blue coat prompts him to spin on his heel and stagger away. Where could he go? The balcony? No, he’d certainly be ambushed there, and his only chance of escape would be to scale the side of the building. He’d rather not attempt that. Perhaps he could tuck himself behind a few other people-

Nimble fingers close around his wrist, restraining him but only gently, and he whirls around to deliver a scathing objection when he is met face to face with none other than Mr. Nygma. He feels all the air being pressed from his lungs.

“Good evening, Mr. Cobblepot.”

He is rather handsome up close, Oswald regrets to say, with his well-polished suit, his sharp bone structure, and those glinting, dark eyes which leave him feeling as if he’s fallen under a spell. The scent of his cologne is warm and utterly enthralling and Oswald hates that he leans closer to the man. Sofia had been right- Oswald has somehow conquered the enigmatic mind of Mr. Nygma, and this entire night it seems he’s been the sole focus of his attention. The thought of what will surely come next makes his pulse quicken.

“Mr. Nygma.” He dips his head politely. The man does not release his wrist, and Oswald finds himself hoping he never will, even as the moment lengthens and neither of them speaks a word.

“A lovely celebration, don’t you think?” Oswald eventually offers.

“And a lovely estate.”

Oswald smiles cordially and they fall back into silence. The other guests have lined up to dance.

“Your eyes are like the moon,” Mr. Nygma remarks suddenly, peering at him as though curious, “pale and silver as though reflected on water, yet like emeralds when I hold you under this light instead. Fascinating.”

Oswald blinks at his own shocked expression reflected on the man’s round spectacles. “My mother always declared my eyes were my most attractive feature,” he answers breathlessly.

Mr. Nygma gazes down his nose at him, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his lips and baring bright teeth- not in a predatory manner but in a pleased one, as though he is content to have given such a high compliment. But only a moment later, his grin dissolves. “I, um, have something to ask of you,” he says to Oswald’s loafers, the mask of confidence and poise slipping from his tone. He releases Oswald’s wrist and clasps his hands behind his back- quite odd, for if he intends to ask Oswald for a dance, he should extend an arm to him.

“Then do so,” Oswald replies, hoping his smile is encouragement enough for him.

“Would you, um,” he coughs and glances away briefly, as though distancing himself from the thought, then squares his shoulders and lifts his chin once more. “I can’t be bought, but I can be stolen with one glance. I am worthless to one, yet _priceless_ to two. What am I?”

Surely Oswald’s jaw cracks when it hits the floor. What kind of gentleman would mock him so? When Mr. Nygma had first approached him, it seemed he had every intention to ask him for a dance, but now this is a slap in the face. He never had any such intention at all! Does he mean to toy with Oswald’s heart? Perhaps this has all been some cruel ploy to inflate Mr. Nygma’s ego- it would not be the first time some blundering fool tormented Oswald in such a way. “Excuse me?”

Mr. Nygma seems perfectly sure of himself now, lengthening his body like a proud cat. “I can’t be bought-”

“No, I _heard_ you. What is this?”

“It is a riddle,” he says simply, completely uncaring of how he’s made Oswald into a fool. The next song has already begun.

“I wonder what name they would give a ball if the guests told each other riddles rather than ask them to dance,” Oswald retorts shakily, his face burning hot while Mr. Nygma’s turns pale and frigid as stone. He tugs sharply at his coat lapels. “I care not for riddles, Mr. Nygma. Good evening.”

Too incensed and humiliated to linger and bid his host and friends goodbye, Oswald storms from Wayne Manor and into the cold night, the joyous chatter of dancing guests chasing after him.


End file.
